


welcome to a new kind of tension

by ashkatom



Series: OLOHverse [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Helming, Original Character(s), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5787856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TA: they’re iin control of the ENTIIRE FRIINGE, ii’m no general but ii thiink that’2 kiind of a problem?<br/>TA: e2peciially when the head of the happy liittle clade ii2 power-mad enough that they’ve been helmiing theiir own fuckiing de2cendant2!!</p><p>or, helming in the OLOHverse continues to be incredibly sad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	welcome to a new kind of tension

**Author's Note:**

  * For [temporalDecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/gifts).



> There was a Skype call, a while ago, where Fi was reading OLOH to people and a horrendous thought occurred to us. We had to pause in the midst of the reading and frantically type it out to each other, hammering out the details in broad strokes while the rest of the participants made noises of terror about how mysteriously quiet we suddenly became.
> 
> I hope I did it justice, Fi <3

This ship is old.

It’s not the same thing as saying that the ship _feels_ old. You’ve seen some shit, in the past few sweeps, that has really made you re-evaluate your definition of ‘shit’. Rust, bacteria growing in the ducts, faulty recycling systems, decaying biowire. Decaying _helmsmen_. For once, Aradia’s docking went smoothly - half because this ship is massive and well-maintained, and half because Aradia’s actually getting better at helming. You’re still not allowed to talk about the time she scraped off the landing gear.

In any case, the bay is so polished and the lights so bright you actually have to squint when you and Aradia leave your courier. It’s dwarfed by the network of catwalks that rise around it, retractable to configure for what looks to be anything up to the Flagship, and your gloomy resignation grows with the efficiency in which people in neat-pressed uniforms swarm the bay to start cleaning. When you look around, your scowl growing, every piece of the ship points to being one of the _early_ ones. They haven’t been built on this scale in a long time, and most of the newer ships you’ve seen tend to be more… utilitarian.

“Smile,” Aradia says in your ear, gently pressing a hand against your back to steer you in the direction of the decontamination chambers. “ _I_ _’m_ the scary one.”

“Look at it,” you say, glaring at a tealblood that crosses your path. She completely ignores you, dragging a hose behind her. “It’s perfect. That’s fucked up.”

Aradia makes a noise that isn’t agreeing or disagreeing. “There’s a reason Karkat sent us here first,” she says, and shrugs. “We’ll find out what it is.”

—

One of the new dynamics of your life is going through decon. The smaller ships you’ve been working your way through haven’t needed to comply with full decon procedures, but this ship is a hub, and herd immunity can only do so much. The worst part is being separated from Aradia, but your ident goes through, your blood test doesn’t turn up anything alarming, and your clothes are heat-treated in the time it takes for you to wash yourself down. You’re cramming a foot into a shoe and pulling your shirt back on as you walk out to the small waiting room while Aradia finishes up - you just have to scrub down, she has to disinfect every crevice of her prosthetics, which means that you’re used to waiting - and nearly run straight into a violetblood waiting for you.

It’s unfair, after all these sweeps, even though he never moulted, that Eridan is still the blueprint you judge all violetbloods by. This one is quick to break your moment by nodding his head to you in a bow and extending a neatly-folded armload of uniform towards you. “With my Lord’s compliments,” he says, bland, after a long moment has passed of you staring at him. That breaks the moment entirely; Eridan was many things, but capable of being bland and servile wasn’t one of them. “Hard travel is tiring enough without a chance to stop and refresh yourself in something that isn’t a decontamination chamber.”

After another moment, you reach out and take the pile of clothing that he’s holding, balancing it on your arm with your other hand. He doesn’t flinch at your lack of limb, or glance at it irresistibly, or openly stare. All he does is barely-bow again, the horns framing his face hiding his eyes. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

You wear a uniform. You kind of have to, given that you’re part of the Fleet, even if nobody really knows _what_ part. The advantage of your unknown status is that you don’t have uniform _regulations_. Usually you’re in battered, cheap pants and a too-large shirt, since you do a lot of crawling around in your inspections, and if you’re feeling a particular need to impress you can be talked into wearing the coat, although the effect is kind of ruined by your immediate tendency to shove the sleeves up and leave it unbuttoned. Still, your preferences are known, as part of the reputation you’re starting to build up in the Fleet. You’re not someone who _cares_ about uniforms.

This kind of snub has been tried on you before. Highbloods, deciding that if they have to have lowbloods on their ship that the lowbloods might as well be appropriately decorative. You’re expecting the worst as you unfold the uniform, but it’s- not the worst you’ve ever seen, actually. One tried to put you in something with braid, a couple sweeps ago. This is plain and black, if well-made, and it fits you suspiciously well. The jacket even has little straps inside the sleeves that attach to buttons outside for if you want the sleeves out of your way. The armband, in no way, marks you as part of the ship or tries to claim you. The clothes are entirely unidentifiable and forgettable, and the lack of overt posturing behind giving them to you has you even more suspicious.

It is nicer than you want to admit, wearing clothes cleaned by something more thorough than the shitty wardrobifier on your tiny ship. There was a uniform for Aradia in the pile of clothes you got given, too, a plain black bodysuit of fabric that feels expensive when it slides through your fingers. You dump it on a chair and sit in another, only to have to get up again when a panel slides open, your stuff having made it through its own decon hell. Palmtop in hand, you return to your chair and wait for your moirail.

—

Aradia shrugs into the bodysuit when she gets out, the plugs settling into place perfectly with her non-standard ports. It’s been long enough that you think your highblooded guide has probably abandoned you, but when you open the door, he’s standing beside it as if he only just stepped outside. When he sees Aradia, he covers it well, but the first moment of the first look he gives her is a deep-seated covetousness that makes you roll your eyes. Another thing you’ve gotten sick of over the past few sweeps: people falling at Aradia’s feet.

“What did you do to get stuck with us?” Aradia asks, and you fall back to let her work him over.

His smile is entirely too convincing at reaching his eyes when he turns to answer her. “I liked the idea of being stuck with you too much.” He leads you through corridor after corridor while Aradia tries to work that one out. You ignore it, because you’ve seen people throw themselves at Aradia before and you’re sick of violetbloods that make you itch.

You walk into your guide’s back again because of your lack of attention. When you look up, you see the most extravagant waste of money you’ve ever seen. The core of the ship is a _fishtank_. For the stupidly powerful seadweller who just can’t let the ocean go, you guess. The fish flitting around inside are none that you know \- like you were any kind of fish-identifying enthusiast - and the longer shadows deep in the tank make alarm bells go off in your head.

“It’s beautiful,” Aradia says, spreading a hand against the glass. Her expression is unreadable

“Welcome to the Deathfowl,” your guide says, and because you are you and are spectacularly unimpressed by a bunch of fish, you pick up on the slightest sardonic note in his voice. “Lord Imoogi is this way.”

For a moment you think he’s going to lead you _into_ the tank, but more corridors and an elevator and yet more corridors take you to the top of the Deathfowl and Lord Imoogi’s private office. Your capable assistant gestures to a couple of chairs - more comfortable than their decon counterparts - before knocking on the door and slipping inside.

“So,” Aradia says, and crosses one leg over the other. “How thoroughly patronised do you think we’re about to be?”

“Someone,” you say, and raise your eyebrows, “definitely wants to patronise you.” You tug on your ear to make the point that you’re probably being spied on, and she laughs. “So long as we can convince the Fringe to not shoot us down,” you say, and shrug. “We’ve been through worse smug lords.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” says a voice from the door. You and Aradia both jerk to face the door, and the words you were going to say get stuck in your throat as you get confronted by a seadweller who reminds you of Kanaya more than you really wanted to be reminded of Kanaya at this particular moment. Still, with the stripes and the lipstick - _but lips can always be blacker_ , Kanaya murmurs in your head - the comparison is inevitable. “I’ve been practicing smugness since before your Ancestor was born, and being worse than the other Lords comes naturally.” 

“Lord Garfit Imoogi,” your guide says from inside the room. “They would be delighted to see you now.” He places just enough stress on _they_ to make you want to roll your eyes, although you refrain because Aradia starts kicking you in the ankle if you start rolling your eyes at the best and brightest of the Alternian Fleet - literally, in Garfit’s case - mostly out of jealousy at not being to eyeroll undetected, you think. Between the makeup and the obscuring lines of their uniform, well. You’re unobservant, but you _can_ take a hint.

You make it past the extravagant first impression of Lord Garfit Imoogi to take a closer look at the next bastard you have to get through - and. Oh. Same horns as your guide, same _sign_. It’s a good thing you weren’t rude. Ruder than your base state of being, anyway. You’re not sure how you feel about Ancestors, after having come face-to-face with yours, and the fact that Garfit Imoogi has been pulling strings to collect theirs is something that gets you right in your being-annoyed-at-highbloods lobe.

“Lord Imoogi,” you say on neutral autopilot, not getting up since your connection to the Empire makes this sort of stupid political game necessary. You’re not good at it, but you’ve had to learn.

You’re rewarded with a smile that, while pleasant, manages to convey perfectly nothing. “Lord Captor.” While you’re blanching at that, their eyes come to rest on Aradia. “And Lady Megido.” Where their descendant completely ignored your missing hand and Aradia’s metal everything, now she’s getting the full head-to-toe treatment. “Come in.”

“We’re no Lord and Lady,” Aradia says, flat. Lords and Ladies… it’s a holdover from when Alternia was a different place entirely, and now they tend to be the ones in control of vast swathes of space, and all the resources within. If they’re not all seadwellers, they might as well be. Feferi hasn’t given you any title, since the confusion at a lack of one carries you further than arguing your exact status in the Empire would. Calling you Lord and Lady is a bad joke, at the very best.

“Aren’t you?” Garfit asks, one eyebrow quirking, before gesturing back into the office. Aradia makes her decision and slides past them into the room. It’s not necessarily a good thing - sometimes she likes having the door closed before she starts tearing into someone - but you follow her in.

You always have.

—

Your guide - Arthur - gets firmly booted out with orders to ‘make things ready’ for you and Aradia. Garfit pours tea for you with their own two hands, which is interesting, and doesn’t even immediately follow it up with blathering and insinuation about how the Empire was doing just fine without you and really even if this is necessary you personally should have had the decency to disappear.

This whole situation might be wearing on you a little more than you thought. You’re sick of highbloods that make you _itch_.

Aradia looks at the tea in front of her. “We’d hate to take up your time,” she says after a moment, more diplomatically than you could have. “We’ve only budgeted a week to get the Deathfowl retrofit started before we have to move on in the Fringe.”

Garfit ignores her to look at you over the rim of their teacup. “I am curious as to where you found your sources on helming history…” they pause for a moment. “Sollux, if not Lord Captor.”

“Captor’s fine,” you say in barely more than a mutter, then straighten your shoulders in resignation. “I’m not here to satisfy curiosities, Lord Imoogi.”

Garfit sips their tea before putting the cup back on its saucer. “Interesting, considering that you raise so many.” They let that hang there politely while Aradia does her best to not choke on her tea. “Why do you reject the title of Lord?”

You drum the fingers of your hand on the table until a freezing glare from Aradia and a mildly disapproving look from Garfit stop you. “I’m not very laudable. Is there a point to this?”

“More than you know.” The chill in their voice makes you swallow. “The Deathfowl is another world entirely than the petty back-and-forth of the inner Empire.” They are silent for a moment, looking at the depths of their cup like it has any answers. “Above all others in the Empire save your far-flung circle, I am aware of the choice that Vriska Serket put you to. Despite the setting, this conversation is no less dangerous for the Empire.”

It’s too late to pretend that the Lord of the Fringe didn’t score a mark with the comment about Vriska, since you’ve developed a wince that won’t go away whenever her name is mentioned. Aradia distracts from it by standing up, scraping her chair back obnoxiously in the process. 

“Sit,” Garfit says, like she’s a guest leaving too soon.

“Tell me what to do again,” she hisses, power crackling off her. 

“Put down your petty toys,” Garfit says, each word coming out ice-clear as power rises around them to answer her and their eyes glow purple. “Unless you have the will for deeds, words make better weapons, _Lady_ Megido. _Sit_ , and use them.”

You reach out and dig your fingers into the sleeve of Aradia’s bodysuit, gripping so hard that your knuckles turn white. When it comes to feeling out other psionics, you’ve always been better at it than Aradia, because your moirail doesn’t care. Your moirail would pick a fight with a mountain, has in fact done so before, and won. Other psionics don’t scare her, because very little scares her.

Everything scares you. And you feel Garfit’s power in your horns, and think that you’d need Karkat’s army back to take on the Lord of the Fringe. This, you think, must have been Condesce’s fail-safe if Feferi hadn’t won and the rebellion had continued anyway. Garfit, and their careful distance from the rest of the Empire, ready to be bridged.

You have to wonder who’d win, between him and your Ancestor.

“So,” you say, the words coming from a very _Captor_ place, possibly direct off your Ancestor’s lack of shits to give while you’re still frozen in terror. “Apart from proving that you’re better than us in a _completely_ different way from every other piece of highblood trash we’ve come across, what’s your fucking point?”

You kind of expect to die. You don’t expect Garfit to link their fingers together and look at you thoughtfully. “The records you found began at a certain point because that was when helm manufacture was taken completely off-world,” they say, the directness of it leaving you scrambling to catch up after the games that were just played. “The records were archived in paper before that, and I was the one who burned them.”

You lean back in your chair. “And your Lord and Lady bullshit?” you ask, voice not wavering. There’s a lot to fear from Garfit, and now you know that, but you don’t think they’re going to murder you at this point.

“I find it despicable,” they say, equally calm, “that you refuse to acknowledge the power that has been delivered into your-” a brief, thin smile graces their face, “hands, if you’ll forgive the expression.”

Aradia laughs. “You’ve got us coming and going, don’t you? If we never raise a hand we’re not trying hard enough, and if we take the power then we’re doing it all wrong.” She leans forward, because, as previously mentioned, she is afraid of nothing. You love her more than should be possible, even if it means that you’re going to die an early and probably painful death. “You don’t get to use us to justify all the painful little secrets you’ve hidden away over the years, _Lord Imoogi_. You can keep that. We just show up and do the work.”

All of the expression falls off Garfit’s face before they reply, with careful, measured words that come from further away than you have ever known. “The first Helmsman as you know them was a Captor. Mituna Captor, a runaway slave recaptured after proving that psionics could not go free in the Empire and leave an Empire standing. My predecessor arranged for him to be given to the Orphaner Dualscar, and so a leash for the psionics of the Empire was developed.” Garfit sips at their tea, unseeing, as you and Aradia do your best to not gape. “Dualscar was the Empire’s pawn, of course, and in those times that meant that Dualscar was our pawn, too.”

“What did you do?” Aradia asks, her voice carefully devoid of any emotion. The two of them may as well be wax statues, for all you can feel sweat on your palms and your heart thudding in your chest. You are not going to like this revelation. You can _taste_ how much you are not going to like this revelation.

“There was significant anti-psionic sentiment, backed by the revolutions held in quick succession. The Imoogi have always been proud.” You didn’t think Garfit’s tone could get any flatter, but it does. “I killed my predecessor and offered my kin to the Empire’s altar. We crafted our own leashes in trade for a hand in the Empire’s shaping, and as a result there are still people left that the Empress need tread softly around.”

—

“What’s his name?” Aradia asks, down in the helmsblock, nearly drowned out by the ambient noise. The Deathfowl is old and so is the troll in the wires, though he doesn’t look much older than you or Aradia, preserved by the biowire.

“Glydan,” Arthur supplies, looking up at his - Ancestor? You haven’t quite grasped the Imoogi line of succession, or the idea of a line of succession in general. Eridan finding Dualscar’s gun is one thing, but the Imoogi have history trapped between them, fresh to memory. “First was Mehtar, then Utheyr. That was back when helming was…” he shrugs. “Anyway, they both burned out. Cadmus was trained for it, but Garfit wanted to train someone up to replace _them_ , and Denzel and Howell got into a situation, and that left me and Glydan.” 

“So why is it Glydan up there and not you?” Aradia needles your companion Imoogi as she waits for you to run diagnostics. 

Arthur steps away from the Helmsman in order to sit next to her on an abandoned terminal. “Because Glydan was kind,” he says, finally. “And I’m not.”

“I need some items requisitioned,” you cut into their conversation, and hold a list out with two fingers towards Arthur. You don’t want to use psionics down here, with Arthur and Glydan still _itching_ at you and only the familiar feel of Aradia keeping you grounded. It’s a pain, working one-handed with nothing to compensate, but better than the alternative.

After Arthur takes the list from you, saluting as he leaves, Aradia jumps down off her terminal to slot in by your side instead. “Verdict?” she asks, quiet enough to suit this mausoleum.

You scrub your hair away from your face, irritated. “About the situation or about the upgrade?”

“Both.” She nudges you with a shoulder. “You want me to bounce Garfit off a wall? It’ll be fun for all of us.”

You kneel down and yank open the terminal you’ve been working on. None of your diagnostics have come back right, which means that, despite the attention poured into the ship, there’s a mechanical failure somewhere. You’re hoping it’s just a misread connection, because you don’t have the patience to go hunting. “Who cares, AA? It’s just another highblood sulking that we’re changing things.”

“Mmm,” Aradia says, considering, as she turns to lean against the terminal and look up at the seadweller in the wires. “I don’t think so.”

You grunt as you rip off an access panel that was really meant to be opened with two hands. “The _Lord Imoogi_ turned over the rest of their bloodline to make sure that there was only one psionic of any power left in the Empire, AA. And we just took away the system that gave them their excuse.”

Aradia crouches beside you. “We knew we were going to be ripping apart the Empire,” she says, folding her arms. “We knew there’d be things we didn’t like. But I think there’s more here.”

You want to dismiss her words and get back to your weary dismantling. You’ve gotten through the past few sweeps of grinding through more work than you can comprehend by maintaining your sheer inability to give a fuck, turned to new and exciting ends, but now…

When Aradia talks, you listen. It’s meant you’ve gotten into less shitty situations, overall. So you sigh, and nod, and she squeezes your shoulder as you start yanking out wires.

—

“Hold this.” Aradia shoves a pair of wires at Arthur, who still shows no sign of being beleaguered by the two of you. He looks at them in interest while Aradia ties her hair out of the way, pinning it in place before uncapping the ports on her neck. She made noises, a sweep ago, about cutting her hair short, but they’ve never come to fruition. The last time her hair was short, you’d burned most of it off, so you’re quietly glad she decided against cutting it.

“What are you doing?” he asks, handing her back one of the wires when she gestures for for it.

She plugs the wire into her neck, and he loses some of the Imoogi composure you’ve come to know and hate as it clicks into place. “Sollux has been using the last few shifts to try to make contact with Glydan.”

He drops the other wire. The resultant scramble he makes for it makes you look up from your work, because in the nights you’ve been here, you haven’t seen an Imoogi fuck up anything. “He’s _aware_? You can talk to him?”

Aradia blinks, as taken aback by this display of actual emotion as you are. “Sometimes,” she says, after a moment. “Helmsmen go into the helm aware. They don’t always come out the same way.”

“We talk to them,” you say, looking back down at your terminal. You don’t know what to make of Arthur Imoogi, the things he’s let slip and the feeling that he’s hiding more behind the slips. “Someone has to figure out if they’re still alive.”

“I would have thought you’d known,” Aradia says, gentler than you’d expected. “With your Ancestor, and the Deathfowl.” She takes the second wire out of his unresisting hand and slots it home. “If they’re unresponsive, Sollux gets into the subroutines and looks for anomalies to see if there’s something to communicate with. If that doesn’t work, then I try.” She slots the second wire into herself, and the click of it echoes more in the room than it should. “If we find someone, we try to bring them back. If neither of us find anything, we start the retrofit.”

You start setting up all the connections necessary for connecting Aradia to a system that already has a Helmsman in it. She’s never been able to describe the result to you, how she can sometimes find the pieces left of a person in a system. It’s been a long time since you’ve craved that indescribable subsummation of yourself, but every time she tries to tell you what it feels like, a little of it comes back. You’re tired of the work you have to do, tired of being responsible for the Empire you brought into being, tired of seadwellers and their bullshit. Not having to keep your shoulder under this load gets more tempting the more impossible it is.

“How often do they come back?” Arthur asks, still rattled.

Aradia sits down while you do the last of the setup, trailing wires into your space as she leans on the terminal beside you. “I wondered,” she says. “Who could put someone close to them in a helm, knowing what helming is?” The corner of your mouth twists into a bitter smirk when you feel Arthur’s eyes on you. You can hardly tell people the truth, even hinting, behind Aradia’s helming. The general perception is that she selflessly sacrificed herself for the revolution, laid herself willingly under the knife for her trust in you and what you were doing. Garfit, apparently, knows the whole story regardless. Somehow, you don’t think Arthur does. “One in six,” she says, eventually. “If I have to chase them down? Maybe one in six is something more than a battery and has something to bring back.”

He doesn’t leave, when you half-expected him to storm off and throw down with Garfit. He doesn’t go pale, even, or any other sign of disgust or anger. Neither you or Aradia are fooled in the least.

—

— twinArmageddons [TA] has started trolling cuttlefishCuller [CC] —  
TA: 2o what’2 the deal wiith the bloodliine all iin the one place?  
CC: T)(e Imoogi?  
CC: I don’t know, reely. Garfit laid out t)(e agreements t)(ey )(ad wit)( t)(e Condesce about t)(e Fringe, and APPI-ERENTLY it’s )(eriditary.  
TA: what the fuck.  
TA: ii always thought you were the only one who iinheriited thiing2.  
CC: W)(ale, it makes a little sense. Eridan would )(ave in)(erited Dualscar’s title, and Vriska was trying )(er best at doing t)(e same.  
CC: T)(e Imoogi )(ave been doing t)(is since bes)(ore Condesce’s time, t)(ey said.  
TA: eriidan and vrii2ka were fluke2. and thii2 ii2 fucked up.  
TA: there’2 one iin the helm, ff.  
CC: )(ang on.  
cuttlefishCuller is sending file ImoogiDossier.pdf  
CC: You don’t want to read t)(e originals, trust me. Aideen found the original paper versions and I sprayned my wrist picking t)(em up.  
CC: )(alibut t)(e first agreement was giving t)(e Imoogi line t)(e ability to regulate its)(ellf in return for a serfis)( the first Imoogi did for t)(e Empress at t)(e time.  
CC: T)(ey’re very big on serfis)(, w)(ic)( is good, because I don’t )(ave t)(e time for anot)(er war rig)(t now.  
TA: they’re iin control of the ENTIIRE FRIINGE, ii’m no general but ii thiink that’2 kiind of a problem?  
TA: e2peciially when the head of the happy liittle clade ii2 power-mad enough that they’ve been helmiing theiir own fuckiing de2cendant2!!  
CC: I know, Sollux, )(alibut t)(ere’s nofin I can do rig)(t now. T)(e Fringe is complicated and Condesce was )(appy to give Garfit exactly as muc)( as t)(ey needed to govern it.  
CC: I don’t undersand w)(y t)(e line is so important to t)(em. It’s somefin from anot)(er time t)(at t)(ey’re keeping alive. T)(eir line was given t)(e power necessary to c)(allenge the Empress, so t)(at it never became necessary, and it stuck.  
CC: I don’t want t)(em )(anging onto power unc)(allenged eit)(er, but it’s probably a good fin for rig)(t now.  
CC: )(aving you in t)(ere is t)(e first step in making s)(ore t)(at t)(eir power is going to be deconstructed, t)(oug)(. Just be careful.  
TA: ii cannot beliieve how much ii wiish eriidan wa2 here.  
CC: You and me bot)(.   
CC: I minnow I keep saying it, but take care.  
CC: I can’t afford to )(ave you or Aradia go missing, or to )(ave Garfit on my case.  
TA: ii am defiiniitely the be2t per2on you could have piicked for thii2.  
— cuttlefishCuller [CC] has ceased trolling twinArmageddons [TA] —

—

Aradia doesn’t really need you to help her with helming, anymore. In the first few seasons, everything went a lot more smoothly with you helping to plug her in and throw the switches, but it’s second nature to the both of you now. You still like - well, like’s the wrong word, it’s more like a compulsion. You feel the need to be there, to keep vigil. You’d think you’d have gotten used to it, but this time, like every time, you jump when she snaps back into her body, one hand lifting to grab clumsily at the kill-switch. She manages to make her hand work before you get there, though, and once she’s no longer connected to the Deathfowl she has no trouble with unplugging herself.

“Find anything?” you ask.

She shakes her head, lips pressed together.

You have had to make some unpleasant calls, since Ascension. The most unpleasant has been what happens to the Helmsmen who never come back from wherever they’ve gone, leaving only the ship in their husk. Helmsmen like your Ancestor, you give a choice. It’s not much of a choice, but Feferi has set R&D to figuring out how to detach traditional Helmsmen without killing them, and those who want it are put on the list. If they want to stay in the wires, then they’re left alone, because none of you are entirely comfortable with the idea of detaching them against their wills even if the Fleet needs to be upgraded.

Then there are the Helmsmen like Glydan.

They’re not alive, Aradia had said, and at the time she was the only one that would have known. The new Helmsmen going into the Fleet were needed on ships, trying to save the frayed remnants of the Empire left by your destruction of it. Aradia was the only one who had shared a ship with the old Helmsmen, and they were nothing more than the nerve centre of a ship. There was nothing of the person they were left, and they couldn’t be given the choice of whether to stay or to go, and they would _never die_ , because of the biowire.

Feferi decided in favour of progress, and of not enslaving the corpses of the trolls that the Fleet was built on. Technically, it’s the duty of whoever’s commanding the ship you’re on, but the Helmsmen need to be cut down before the work of refitting the ship can be completed. Often enough it’s Aradia, after you try and end up sitting on the ground with your head between your knees.

“I’ll go tell them,” you say, because you can still split the burden in other ways.

—

Garfit \- you refuse to think of them as _Lord Imoogi_ in your head, because your ‘paying respect’ glands are pretty thoroughly exhausted by the song and dance you have to go through every time you see Feferi or Karkat - takes the news well. Their hands only pause a moment on their keyboard before they finish typing and push the keyboard back to look at you. “I will take care of Glydan at the end of this shift,” they say. “Will that allow you enough time to put your intermediary measures in place?”

You’re tired enough after the double-shift you just pulled of trying to chase Glydan down that you want to slouch in the chair, but it seems like a bad idea for a lot of reasons. You do let yourself rub your face as you think. “The main problem is the changeover. You don’t have an equipped Helmsman here, the power cells we brought can only keep the Deathfowl going for so long, and Aradia can’t stay here until you get a new Helmsman in.”

Garfit scowls, and that actually scares you. “Imoogi helm the Deathfowl, Captor.” They’re silent for a long time, and you can practically see the problem being worked through. “How long will the power cells last?”

“With the Deathfowl?” You consider. “Maybe a week.” After eyeing them a moment, you say, “The problem is that they don’t have the power to move the ship. They’re rechargeable, but it’s life support only.” 

“That will do.” Garfit turns back to their keyboard. The barest hint of a smirk turns the corner of their mouth up, and though it’s impossible to tell, you think that it might be as honest as Garfit gets. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Since falling in with Feferi, you’ve gotten used to knowing what the people in power around you are planning. Since Ascension, you’ve gotten used to having more implicit power than the people in power around you. It is extremely unsettling having neither be true.

—

Arthur finds you and Aradia dragging the four power cells that fit in your little courier into the Deathfowl’s helmsblock. The strange, teeth-itching feeling of using your psionics in a place drowned in the Imoogi psionic signature was weighed against your desire to not manually carry the power cells and using your psionics won. You think it might be the first time you’ve used your psi on the Deathfowl, which explains why Arthur came running.

“Lord Imoogi is on the way,” he says, after taking in the scene and realising that you’re not laying siege to the ship.

“Oh, good.” Aradia shoves one of the power cells at him with a grunt. “Help with this.”

The first interesting thing is that Arthur doesn’t complain. The second interesting thing is the feel of his psi, in particular, when he reaches out with it to take the cell. Garfit Imoogi has power, but Arthur Imoogi has finesse. He’s _trained_ , which you hadn’t expected. Aradia raises her eyebrows at you while he’s busy getting the cell settled, and you shrug.

You splice them into the biowire with the ease of practice. You’ve been here three nights now, which means that you only have three more to gut the ship and prepare it for the fitting of the new rig. Someone from R&D will be responsible for the rest, once the Helmsmen for the ship are assigned - or, you guess, operated on, if Garfit is serious about keeping the helm stocked with their lineage. 

An Imoogi you don’t recognise joins you in the helmsblock. “Cadmus,” Arthur says, wary, still arm-deep in biowire. Garfit enters before Cadmus can greet him back, and the two younger Imoogi do the deferential bow of the head that you’re starting to think is bred into them.

You got used to the alarmingly colourful takes on the concept of a uniform that Garfit wears, barely. You weren’t expecting them to show up in _armour_ , something you think, at first, is whiter-than-white chainmail and turns out to be scales. It’s more masculine than any of the clothes you’ve seen them in, and it makes you wonder exactly how old the power they’ve accumulated for theirself is. You can’t imagine an _uncertain_ Garfit.

“Why the armour?” Aradia asks, straightening up from the biowire she’s bent over. “Are we at war?”

“Always,” Garfit says, crossing to stand in front of Glydan. No regret crosses their face as they examine him. “The armour dates from when the Imoogi were something the Empress unleashed. Wearing it is a reminder that we are nothing less, now.” Arthur and Cadmus watch him, at attention, and when his power rises, theirs answers. “We were called dragons, once.”

The light of their psi is bright enough that you need to close your eyes. The noise of the ship falters for a moment, until the power cells cut in, and when you open your eyes Glydan is gone.

Arthur’s hands are trembling. You don’t know the story, and you’re starting to think that all of the Imoogi are more insane than you were when you overthrew the Empire, but there’s enough of you that’s sick of this to feel sorry for him, a little. He must be next in line for the Deathfowl’s helm, and for all that he’s not going to go through the helming process those before him did, you imagine that there’s not much choice involved with someone like Garfit standing over your shoulder.

“The Empire is changing,” Garfit says, and it lacks the smug tone that usually colours their words. “The balance of power is shifting. It requires a change in the Deathfowl, and in how we manage the clade’s affairs.”

“My lord,” Arthur says. “We know that I’m the next one to helm.”

Garfit raises both eyebrows. “Impressive, that you already know my decisions.”

The look Cadmus gives Arthur is only a few degrees shy of turning another Imoogi to dust. “The Imoogi serve,” he says. “You’ve been training me in the administration of the Fringe for sweeps, my lord. Arthur’s more practiced with his psi than with his politics.”

“The Imoogi serve,” Garfit repeats, thoughtful. “Yes. We serve the Empire. An Empire that I no longer know.” They look at you and Aradia, calculating. You had to be here, to make sure that Glydan was dealt with appropriately, but all of a sudden you _really don_ _’t_ want to be here.

Cadmus swallows. “My lord-”

“Only for now.” Garfit waves a hand. “If change is coming to the Empire, we may as well get it over and done with.”  His gaze comes to rest on Arthur. “We serve the clade, and we serve the Empire. You knew this was coming.”

Arthur, to his credit, is perfectly steady. “Glydan didn’t.”

“ _Glydan_ understood the idea of working towards something greater than himself,” Garfit corrects. “He made his choices. What are yours?”

Arthur spreads his arms in a shrug. “How could I escape the machinations of the Dragon of the Fringe? You always wanted Glydan in the helm. He was too smart.”

“Whereas you’ve always been just stupid enough,” Garfit says, dry. Then, after a moment, they lift a hand. Arthur flinches, but all Garfit does is rest their hand in his hair. “You won’t escape my machinations, but you may be able to outrun them. I will be the new Helmsman of the Deathfowl.”

Arthur looks up in alarm, even as Cadmus’ head whips around. “My lord-”

Garfit’s smile is cruel. “Helmsman. If it’s title enough for Megido, then it’s title enough for me.”

Aradia shoots you an alarmed look and attempts to fade into the background. You do the same and think, longingly, of the times when you weren’t embroiled in highblood drama.

“Cadmus will transition into Lordship over the Fringe while we wait for the ship to be refitted,” they say.

“What are you trying to do?” Cadmus snaps. “You’ll be wasted as a Helmsman.”

You flinch at those words. Garfit sees it, but lets it go. “Then that is up to us to change,” they say, calm. “It’s already changing. Would you rather be left behind, a relic of an Empire where we are ignored because we set ourselves apart? Captor and Megido have already dethroned a number of Lords and Ladies who didn’t change quickly enough.” When Cadmus shakes his head, disbelieving, Garfit turns to face what’s left of the helm. “We serve the Empire, Cadmus. We require power to do so, and power requires people willing to submit to your authority. Services rendered, sacrifices made.”

Cadmus, chagrined, nods.

“The Fringe needs to be secured,” Garfit continues, as if that didn’t happen. “Arthur, you will accompany Captor and Megido and render them all due assistance.”

“Hey!” you yelp.

“No,” Aradia says, scrutinising Arthur. “I imagine having an Imoogi will help us get through the Fringe smoothly. We can introduce him to Feferi afterwards.”

Garfit extends an entirely more grateful than necessary bow to her. “My thoughts exactly. Cadmus.” With no further ado, they turn and leave the Helmsblock. Cadmus nods to you and follows, leaving you with an empty helm and a nearly-disowned Imoogi.

“We’re not allowed to keep pets,” you tell Aradia, sourly. Your courier is cramped enough without a seadweller tagging along.

Aradia grins. “I’ll take care of him.”

—

You slide the tablet over to Garfit to inspect, since they’re still technically Lord Imoogi and have to sign off on everything. 

“I would have liked to have met Eridan,” they say, as they read the report you’ll send to Feferi. Your heart seizes in your chest. “Dualscar was such an arrogant piece of piss that I would have liked to see if it transcended generations.”

You pull the tablet back to yourself with frozen fingers. “It did.”

“Ah.” Garfit leans back in their chair. “Well, I suppose the difference is in the company he kept.”

You nod. There’s not much else to do.

“I won’t keep you,” Garfit says, after a long moment. “Do not let Arthur do anything idiotic in your company.”

—

Another refit down, the rest of the Fringe to go. Aradia spins up the engines with a laugh over the intercom, and Arthur crowds up against you in the cockpit, doing his best to break his nose on the exterior displays. “How hard do you think it’ll be to convince the Empress to give me a courier of my own?”

You groan.

**Author's Note:**

> If you are intrigued by the Imoogi, have never encountered them before, and would like to consume more of their terrifying family politics, [Distrait](http://archiveofourown.org/series/38968) is going to be your jam, my friends.


End file.
